


Need You Now

by Enid_Black



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But I'm not sorry, I'm Sorry, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Song fic, When something stucks in your head this is what happens!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:29:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enid_Black/pseuds/Enid_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fluffy fic inspired by Need You Now by Lady Antebellum, in the Glee Version ('cause I'm a gleek too).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need You Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NepturnalHarianne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NepturnalHarianne/gifts).



> I wrote this with Need You Now by Lady Antebellum on loop. I usually listen to the Glee version, but feel free to choose. Anyway, way better if you read it with the song underneath.
> 
> Many many thanks to the other half of my fandom sky, NepturnalHarianne, who kindly beta'd the work for me, as having written it at 3 am in the morning doesn't help the grammar XD.

_Pictures perfect memories scattered all around the floor..._

Sherlock was in the last flat in London, the last halt in his journey. Three years had passed since that fateful day of April in which Moriarty had laid his cobweb and forced him to end his life. Or at least to pretend to.  
The day had seen the last part of his plan put into place, Sebastian Moran had been dragged away by Mycroft's men less than an hour before and he had come back to his lair to... think.  
He could come back. He could come back to his cases, to his flat. He could come back to pay Mrs Hudson's rent, to solve Lestrade's cases. He could come back to John. He could come back _home._  
He saw, in his mind palace, like pictures scattered on the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling, his flatmate, his friend, his... first thought. Hadn't it been for him, he wouldn't have bothered faking. He could have as well done it. But... he couldn't leave John forever, he wasn't strong enough to.

*** *** *** *** ***

_Another shot of whisky, can't stop looking at the door..._

John Watson was indulging in the only glass of whisky he drank. Every month, for the last three years, at the struck of the midnight on the _day_ , he would take the skull, a tumbler of whisky and drink, remembering his flatmate, his best friend, his... last thought every day.  
That day had been particularly restless. A day spent ad A&E hadn't been able to rid him of the helplessness he felt every time that date approached. The fact that he had been forced to go to St. Bart's to retrieve some mundane paperwork that the people there couldn't be arsed to scan and send by e-mail hadn't certainly helped.

_Wishing you come sweeping, in the way you did before_

That night, he found himself nursing his drink so slowly the ice melted in it and watered the liquor down a bit. He kept looking at Sherlock's room door, like he could be summoned there, like he could come in sweeping his dressing gown or his coat behind him. That day, John Watson indulged in all the thoughts he had tried to avoid for three years, and the only companions to these thoughts were the skull, the smiley, and his whiskey. And a couple of stray tears that had wanted to escape at all costs.

*** *** ***  
 _Reaching for the phone 'cause I can't fight it anymore_

Sherlock hadn't used his old phone for three years. He had kept it charged and working, but not connected to the line. Mycroft had retrieved it from Scotland Yard and given it to him when he had sent him on his mission, along the promise to keep an eye on John. And keep an eye he did. Sherlock knew that John still lived at 221B Baker Street, he worked at an A&E now, and that he seemed fine. But Sherlock had seen the footage Mycroft had sent him to prove his point, and had seen that his friend was, in fact, not fine at all. That had led to a fight between the brothers where Mycroft had had to remind him that if he contacted John Watson before the work was done, he was risking to have him killed. Sherlock had had thus to swallow his pride and his worry and force through his job, tearing down Moriarty's web. 

_And I wonder if I ever cross your mind..._

Now, he would not endanger John anymore. But it was so late, after midnight. John would be sleeping. Anyway, his fingers moved on their own accord, and made the switch of the "Fly mode" slide to off. A storm of messages flooded the phone, mostly from John's number, messages left on his voicemail. Sherlock shuddered, feeling suddenly sick. He raised the phone to his ear, after pressing the voicemail button and waited for the pre-recorded voice to guide him through three years worth of messages.  
John's messages weren't long and, for the most part, weren't varying much from the first one, left on the day of his funeral.  
"Hey... I know you can't answer right now, you're busy... I just thought I’d leave a message to let you know... I'll be home. I bought the milk so I won't pester you with it. I... I have to go now. See you... Oh, ah, err, and... Sherlock... You could."  
More or less a message a month was left on the voicemail, the first on the day of the funeral, the others on the day of the fall. Every and each one on the same day of his fall, each and every one between one and one thirty in the morning, when no one could hear John talk to his dead flatmate. 

The ones on the previous two anniversaries were different, and not any bit less painful to hear.  
"Hi... It's been a year and today Greg came here. I can't believe it's already been a year _since_... I don't believe in god, as you know, but I believe in you... I'm still waiting for my last miracle."  
"Hey, you arse... this is the second year. Today I didn't want to see anyone, apart from Mrs Hudson who insisted on having me for dinner. At least she didn't try to cheer me on. Sh..." John had had to suffocate a sob upon his name "... Please... please, I still believe but I don't know how long I'll be able to stay strong yet. Come back..." another pause "Oh, Bugger, I'm just an idiot..." and the call had closed. But the following month he had called again, and the month after and the month after. Sherlock felt his throat closing, and his urge to see John increased with every message he heard. He did cross John's mind as often as John would cross his.

He looked at the clock: a quarter to one. He took his decision and left the flat, phone in one hand and keys in the other. 

*** *** *** *** ***

_It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now  
I said I wouldn't call, but I've lost all control and I need you now _

John knew he should stop. He should have stopped long ago. Every month it was the same. The whiskey was not enough to make him drunk or even a bit dizzy, but was a good enough excuse to indulge in this. He took the phone again in his hand, the clock streaking one o'clock in the morning, and stared at it.  
Every month, on that day, he would sit with the skull, the whiskey and a bullet-hit smiley on the wall. He would sit on _his_ armchair, his legs tucked under him, the cane he had to use again dropped on the floor beside him, and his memories. He could not let them go, he could not let _him_ go. Ella had said that he was stuck on the phase of denial, that he should come out of it, move on. See people, change flat, change city even, if it helped. He had stopped going to her for his sessions two years ago. Nowadays, Gregory Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were the only ones to visit him anymore. And Mycroft. Out of some incomprehensible obligation, Mycroft Holmes kept showing month after month, on the day of the funeral (never on the day of the fall) and have tea with him. They would not speak, but John would not throw him out of the house either. The first time, he had received a punch on the face and said nothing. Then John had proceeded to make tea and they had shared it.  
John was still watching his phone, fighting with himself on whether or not to press the call button. He had never missed one. 

*** *** *** *** ***

_Yes I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all._

Sherlock's lungs hurt, he had run all the way from the hiding flat to Baker Street, unwilling to risk being recognised by a cabbie.  
At one-twelve he stopped in front of the door of the 221B of Baker Street, stopping for a moment, getting his breath back. He was there. He was just few paces, seventeen steps and two doors from his John.

 

John, on the other side of those paces, steps and doors, was still watching his phone. He had punched the number by heart, having deleted it from the contacts just to please Ella on those first sessions, but never deleting it from his heart. His finger hovered on the call button, the Ella part in his mind trying to make him change idea. He exchanged a glance with the skull and his unimpressed stare made him let out a laugh "Yes, I never listened to her anyway".  
The clock struck one fifteen as he pressed the call button and lifted the phone to his ear, waiting for the voice mail message to sound near his head, as it had always done in those thirty six months. 

 

Sherlock looked at the phone. It had taken him thirty minutes to arrive there and still no call from John. He was just starting to lose his hope when the screen lighted up and the device vibrated in his hand.

 

John's eyes widened almost comically when he didn't hear the standard message redirecting to the voicemail. The characteristic sound of a free and available line sounded in his ear, and his breath hitched. 

 

Sherlock let out a breathy laugh seeing the number on the screen. "John Watson" it said. Tears of relief escaped his eyes, just like the ones he had shed on that roof three years before, upon hearing him ( _Nobody could be that clever - you could_ ). He didn't lose time, on the second ring his finger had pressed the answer button and he had raised the phone to his ear and answered. His mouth and tongue could finally articulate the only syllable they had longed to for years.  
" John..."

 

John's breath hitched again, a fresh batch of tears made way in his eyes. He scrambled off the armchair, making the glass fall on the carpet, the skull fall on the chair. He gulped, one, two, three times, trying to get his throat to work, his free hand working on his face, attempting to get rid of the tears because _he had to see_.  
"Sherlock..." he breathed.  
John could picture Sherlock smiling just from the sound of his breath.  
"John... I'm... I'm alive." he said to his best friend. "And... I'm here. I'll be upstairs in one minute, if you want me to."  
John Watson's limp disappeared suddenly, the cane forgotten, the leg whole and working again. Keeping the phone to his ear while Sherlock talked, he strode to the door, climbed down the seventeen steps at once, unlocked the main door and threw it open.

Sherlock was surprised by the sudden noise and the rush of air in front him when the door was opened. He looked at John and was rewarded with his blogger's stare on him. Slowly, he closed the phone call and put the device in the coat pocket. John mimicked the action, putting the phone in the jeans pocket.  
John was wearing again that cream coloured jumper he had the first time they had met. Sherlock felt almost like laughing in relief.  
"You asked for a miracle..." Sherlock said, not knowing what the reaction would be. For once, John's face wasn't as readable as it used to be. This sent a jolt of discomfort through him.  
"You took your goddamned time." John answered, his voice firm but tight, dampness on his cheeks, his eyes dry.  
"Yeah, well... it was a bit more difficult than I thought." Sherlock answered, lowering his voice, eyes and head. "Do you think.. I could come in and tell you?" he ended up asking.  
"You're a bloody idiot, you know?" John took a step forward and engulfed the taller man in a tight embrace, and was almost surprised for it to be immediately returned, Sherlock's long arms tightening firmly around him and head lowered on his own. They held each other close for seconds at length, neither too keen to leave the other go as they had just reunited. Both ignored the dampness coming from the other, the tears falling on John's head, the tear dampening Sherlock's neck. Then John squeezed him again, took a step back and let Sherlock come in, closing the green door on the sleeping London.

_And I wonder if I ever cross your mind... 'cause to me it happens all the time._


End file.
